


Enchantments

by Fulla



Category: Thor (Movies)
Genre: Angst and Humor, F/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-01
Updated: 2014-04-01
Packaged: 2018-01-10 19:59:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 13,951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1163880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fulla/pseuds/Fulla
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Her eyes and heart have ever been for his brother. But when loneliness and a tankard of mead intersect, anything can happen. Pre-movies. </p><p>A/N: I've never read the comics; these characters will be based on mythology (a bit) and the films (mostly). As such, they belong to Marvel. No copyright infringement intended; just having some fun.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

For all the years he’d spent in Thor’s shadow, Loki had managed to equal him in one respect: he could have any woman he wanted.  Any goddess of Asgard, any enchantress of Vanaheim, any fair mortal in Midgard.  Even Freyja in all her haughty pride had not been able to resist him when he focused his will toward winning her…and his form to one she didn’t recognize.  

In truth, he was choosy and not particularly promiscuous.  His pleasure derived more than anything in perfecting his allure, in recognizing the moment that he knew he had won, that the object of his desire would do anything he wished.    

But Sif was a case apart.  She was friendly, but just enough.  She responded to his charms with an eye-roll.  If he really asserted himself, it might be accompanied by a wry smile.  It seemed she would never truly forgive him for the prank on her hair, even though the dark color much improved her looks, in his opinion.  

Besides which, her eyes and heart had ever been for Thor.  And he had no intention of directly competing with his brother in this particular arena.  

So it was that he blinked in confused astonishment when she approached him in the tavern on that cold winter night, a challenge in her eyes and a slight wobble in her stride.  He’d taken a table in an inconspicuous corner, where he could sip on his spiced wine in anonymity and amuse himself listening to the chatter of the drunkards.  He’d chosen this place precisely for its tiny, dank insignificance; nobody he knew came here.   

Yet here she was.  In her shapeless tunic, long loose breeches, and plain brown cloak, he hadn’t noticed her.  “Loki!”     

Her eyes were bright and her cheeks flushed, but stranger still was the smile she wore, as though genuinely happy to see him.  Was she drunk?

“Sif,” he replied, wary.  

She pulled a chair over from a nearby table and sat down across from him without asking permission.  “What brings you to this filthy hole?” she asked amiably.

Any other night, he’d have welcomed such a stunning development  - Sif, seeking him out? It was unprecedented.  But on this night he was tired, and full of melancholy, and in no mood to battle wits or rise to bait.  Loki shrugged a shoulder, for once unable to muster a properly droll response.   

Her eyes flicked over his face, her expression sobering as she nodded.  “I suppose we all have need of drink and solitude at times,” she observed.  “Shall I leave you?”

 _No._ But he shrugged again, and kept his face impassive.  “As you like.”  

She hummed thoughtfully and took another drink from her mug.  “Well,” she sighed as she brought it back down, her eyes on his.  “I myself was in search of company.  But I shouldn’t want to intrude.”  She made a move to push her chair back.

“It’s no intrusion,” he said quickly.  He picked up his own goblet and drained the last of his wine, studying her over the rim.  

With a lifted eyebrow and half-smile, she settled back down in her chair.  Observing his empty cup, she made a motion toward the barkeep.  “Another?”

He winced.  In truth, he’d planned to leave after this one.  He had neither the taste nor the tolerance for drink that Thor and his friends shared, and he was already warm enough.  He disliked the sensation of dulling his wits too much.  

She nodded understanding.  “I’m close to my limit as well.  Perhaps you would help me finish mine?”  She pushed her cup across the table.  

Bah!  Sif the Shieldmaiden had no limits.  But the barb died on his lips as Loki gazed back at her.  

She was beautiful, to be sure.  But it wasn’t her beauty that unnerved him.  He was accustomed to beauty, surrounded by beauty; Sif was not even the most beautiful of the goddesses.  No, it was the friendly concern in her clear hazel eyes, the sultry half-smile that spoke of…desire?   

Impossible.  She was up to something.  

“If it please you.”  He flashed his customary smirk, but his throat was dry and his voice cracked slightly.  He took the mug in both hands, barely letting the liquid touch his lips before giving it back.  

She stared into his changeable eyes, fascinated as they darkened from their deep blue, to violet, to brightest emerald, and back again.  She’d spied him brooding in the corner the moment she sat down at the bar, and was surprised and not a little affronted when his eyes passed over her without recognition.  _Twice!_ True, she was not dressed in her finest, and her hair was hidden under the hood of her cloak, but it stung her pride nevertheless.  Was she so invisible even to the one who observed _everyone?_

Did the true source of her frustration have anything to do with the fact that Thor had left the dining hall with Eydis, the captain of the palace guard’s daughter?  

Possibly.

On nights such as this, when hope was particularly lacking, she would seek out a lover.  She hadn’t expected to see anyone she knew here, much less Loki.  Who didn’t even recognize her. 

On the other hand, it was a rare opportunity to observe him unnoticed.  

Such an enigma, Thor’s brother.  So different.  Too clever by half.  At once the funniest and saddest person she’d ever met.  Chin in hand, his gaze rested upon a table full of boasting drunkards playing dice, but it was clear his mind was elsewhere.   It was the distant melancholy in his eyes that had captured her notice.  It made her wonder what had put it there…and how she might remove it.  

Loki had never shown any interest in her, though.  He teased, he tormented, he mocked, but he didn’t flirt.  Not with her.  

She’d always been proud that he never tried to turn his charms on her, considering it a sign of respect, until a recent dinner.  For three hours she watched a tipsy Lady Inka leaning into his shoulder, practically drowning in his eyes as she stroked his forearm.  Loki did not like anyone in his personal space.  It was one of the things she knew about him, a certainty.  Yet there he was, laughing and smiling with that silly horse-faced halfwit, letting her _touch_ him, and Sif felt an inexplicable surge of something like resentment.  

_Why not me?_

At last she broke his gaze with a small smile.  “You never drink with me,” she remarked idly, bringing the drink to her lips to hide her face as she took another draught.   

“You’ve never asked me,” he pointed out.

“Nor have you,” she countered, pushing the mug back across the table to him.  

He smiled, just enough to acknowledge the point.  He traced a thumb over the rim of the mug but did not pick it up.  “Where are your friends?”

“Still at the feast.”  She waved a hand, grimacing at the memory.  

“Whyever would you leave them,” he drawled with a smirk.  He, too, had seen Thor with Eydis.

She gave him a long, hard look, which he returned with an expression of pure innocence.  “They’re not just _my_ friends,” she changed the subject.  “They’re your friends too.”

A faint smile touched his lips.  “Of course.”

“They are,” she insisted.  “We are _all_ your friends.  Any one of us would lay down our lives for you.” 

He barked a short, mirthless laugh.  “For Thor, you mean.”

She met his gaze squarely.  “I mean for _you_ , Loki.”  

An uneasy feeling rippled up his spine.  She seemed so…sincere.  

His heart beat faster, telling him to get out of there, now, _now._ He threw her a courteous smile as he pushed back his chair.  “A lovely sentiment, thank you.  But if you don’t mind, it’s late…I should be going.” 

“Loki, wait.”  She reached across the table to lay her hand on his.  He froze, stunned first by the gesture, then by the unexpected warmth of her skin.  “Is it so hard to believe you have friends?” she asked softly.

He said nothing, staring down at the grooves that scarred the wooden table under their hands.  

She slid her fingers down along his and gently turned his hand over to stroke his palm with her thumb.  “Come and talk with me a while.  Somewhere nicer than this wretched place.”  Her voice was soft, rich with invitation.   

He felt as if he might spontaneously combust.  Was she seducing him?  Was it a trick?  Her face was serene, her clear hazel eyes filled with warmth and yearning.      

“If it please you,” she added, with a quirk of the eyebrow and a playful smile.  She pulled her hand back, trailing her fingers across his palm and down his fingertips until she finally drew away and picked up her mug.   

Her touch lingered on his skin.  He licked his lips, opened his mouth to reply, and found he had no voice.   

He nodded, once, just barely enough to indicate his assent.

Sif tossed her long hair over her shoulder, drained the last of the mead in one long draught, and pulled her cloak up over her head.  Without a word she rose to her feet and headed for the door.  She did not look back, but extended her right hand behind her, beckoning him to follow.

Loki leapt to his feet and went after her.  

-  


 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His eyes were changing again, blue and green and violet. It was both captivating and disconcerting, but she refused to break, even as her blood warmed and her heartbeat echoed in her ears. He looked…hungry. Anticipating. Like a cat at a mouse hole. When had he turned the tables on her?

 

He said nothing at all on the way back to her rooms, tucked into a corner at the far end of the palace from his own.  The most respected warriors were quartered here, scattered up and down the southeastern corridor along with high-ranking members of the palace guard, but it was relatively early and the halls were blessedly empty.  Nevertheless Sif found herself relieved to shut the door, and gratified by the look of apprehensive surprise that crossed Loki’s face when she turned the lock.  He was not an easy man to startle.  But then he did seem off tonight.  

She shed her cloak and hung it on a hook by the door, gesturing for him to give up his as well.  After a split second of hesitation, he pulled it off and watched her place it on the hook beside her own.   It was a plain version of the green cloak he normally wore, which was bordered in gold and shot through with designs, but it was still heavy and thick and gloriously soft to the touch.  Even without ornament, next to her own plain brown garment it looked impossibly rich.

She plucked at a bit of fuzz on the shoulder, brushed her hand lightly over the deep green fabric to straighten it, and glanced over to find him watching her.  His thin lips were pressed together in an expression that might have been amusement or disapproval, if she could read his eyes.    

“The color suits you,” she said.  

His blue eyes narrowed, flicking over her face.  Looking for sarcasm, she suspected, and she sighed inwardly.  He would never trust her.  This was a terrible idea.  She was no seductress, and their relationship was prickly enough.  What was she thinking?

At last he swallowed, and gave her a small smile.  “Thank you.”

The uneasy feeling had returned the moment she locked the door.  He shouldn’t have come.  He hated feeling so uncertain of himself, flushed and light-headed and completely off-center.  But he was here, and she seemed amiable enough.  Maybe she really did just want to talk.  

Wandering over to the large bay window, he perched on the edge of the window seat to gaze out at the stars, tucking one leg beneath him.  The sacred grove of Barri spread out below, a dark expanse of forest, and so the stars were much brighter than from his own rooms which faced the populated city center.  “You have an excellent view,” he murmured, tracing the constellation of the White Dragon on the window, leaving a pale green outline glowing against the glass.

She sat down across from him and smiled at his magic, reaching up to touch the brighter spot that marked the dragon’s right shoulder, the blue star Vadi.  The whole image shivered at her touch, then dissipated.  “Oh,” she sighed, disappointed.  “How do you do that?” 

He smiled, glancing at her only briefly before turning his gaze back to the stars.  “Energy, and intention.”  

“It’s beautiful.”  Loki’s power over the ethereal was both fascinating and a little frightening.  She found the elemental world mystifying, preferring the solidity of steel and muscle, things she could control.  But she had great respect for his abilities – he’d used magic to get them out of tight situations more than once, and on three separate occasions, his intervention had almost certainly  saved her life.  

She shifted closer to him and indicated Kára’s Eddy, just risen over the horizon.  “Show me the whirlpool?”

He peered out the window to see where she pointed.  Lifting the first two fingers of his right hand, he carefully placed the five stars of the constellation, then swirled a trail of iridescent green into the shape of the vortex as Sif stared, enraptured.  He drew back and then gave it a light tap, sending the swirls into a slow rotation.  

She let out a delighted laugh.  “That’s amazing.”

“Simple, really.”  Loki shrugged modestly.

She reached up, itching to touch it but unwilling to make it disappear as the White Dragon had.  “Why is your magic green?”    

“I don’t know.”  He looked thoughtful.  “Mother says it’s because magic is personal, from within, and so we all have our own color.  Hers is gold,” he smiled.  “But I can change it, if I wish.”  He closed his eyes a moment, then touched the whirlpool again, and it turned pale blue.  Again, and it was gold.  Crimson.  Silver.  Violet.  When it went back to green, he trailed his fingers around it and drew it back into his palm.  

She gave him a warm smile.  “You have a gift.”

He tried very hard not to smile, and failed utterly.  He reached out and tapped her wrist.  “Hold out your hands.  Like this,” he indicated palms-up, nesting inside one another.  

She obeyed without question or a hint of suspicion, looking up at him in eager anticipation.  

He covered her hands with his own, cool slender fingers wrapping easily around her small ones, and closed his eyes.   Sif wondered if she should, too, but she couldn’t tear her eyes away from his pale face as he murmured something softly in a language she did not understand.  

At last he pulled his hands away and opened his eyes with a smile.  For just a moment, she was too taken by the playful sparkle in his blue eyes to react, but then she felt the fluttering inside her palms and opened them with a gasp.  A small, plump yellow bird with black-tipped wings blinked up at her.  

She stared down at the creature in astonishment.  It was like no bird she’d seen before.  Was it real, or just another illusion?  She flung her hand into the air to see if it would fly.  

The bird chirped in alarm, then flapped to the top of her armoire, where it turned around to look down at her accusingly from tiny black eyes.  

Sif turned to Loki with a grin.  “I think it’s unhappy with me.”

He laughed.  “Very rude of you to throw her like that,” he agreed, holding up his hand to beckon the creature.  It came to him at once, perching on Loki’s index finger and fluttering its wing feathers aggressively toward Sif as it ducked its head to furiously preen underneath for a few seconds.  Then, just as abruptly, it flew to the top of the window and settled in the slight gap on the rod between the heavy draperies.  

Sif tilted her head, lifting a curious eyebrow.  “Her?  How do you know?”

The question puzzled him.  “I conjured her.  Of course I know.”  

“Hmm.”  She reached down to loosen the laces on her high fur-lined boots, casting him a smile over her shoulder.  “Can you teach me?”  

He watched as she discarded her boots and pulled up her legs to cross her ankles, rubbing at her left heel as she looked up at him expectantly.  Sif knew better than most how much of his life he had devoted to his craft, but even she had no conception of the constant studying and testing, the focus and discipline required.  “Perhaps.”

Her eyes flitted over his face, and a line creased her forehead.  “I mean no disrespect.  I know that it’s not…I know that it’s an art, and a skill, and not a…game.”

“Indeed.”  He flashed a wolfish smile.  “But you enjoy games, yes?” 

“Not so much as you, I think,” she returned slyly.  

Loki met her eyes, dipping his head slightly to hold her gaze, his voice pitched low.  “And what of this game you’re playing with me now?”

His eyes were changing again, blue and green and violet.  It was both captivating and disconcerting, but she refused to break, even as her blood warmed and her heartbeat echoed in her ears.  He looked…hungry.  Anticipating.  Like a cat at a mouse hole.  When had he turned the tables on her?

It _was_ a game…but she had rolled the dice first, and she would see it through to the final play.   She swept her tongue over her lower lip, and left it parted.

He pulled in a sharp breath, and his eyes flashed blood red.  

Sif gasped.

In a heartbeat he was on his feet and halfway across the room, leaving her staring at the space he had occupied.  “Well this has been most entertaining,” he threw her a jaunty smile as he reached for his cloak.  “But I think this diversion has run its course, wouldn’t you agree?”  

“Loki, wait.”   She scrambled to her feet.  “Wait,” she repeated, though she had absolutely no follow-up, just knew she didn’t want him to go.   

He dropped his hand from his cloak and looked at her, waiting with icy eyes for her to continue. 

She moved slowly to stand before him, holding his gaze as she subtly blocked the path to the door.  “You’re angry,” she realized in surprise.  “Have I…offended you?” 

He fixed her with his most forbidding expression before asking, in the calmest voice he could summon, “Why did you ask me here?” 

She shivered a little at his cold glare, and was reminded why she had never looked to him before in her moments of loneliness.  How swiftly he could change!  Where was the relaxed and open mage from just a moment ago?  The joking friend who’d sat beside her at a thousand campfires, spinning tales that made even the humorless Hogun spit with laughter?    

“Loneliness,” she admitted boldly.  She kept her eyes on his, refusing to be cowed, and genuinely curious of the answer:  “Why did you come?”   

Uncertainty flickered across his face, just for an instant, and he glanced away.  

“Am I truly the only woman in Asgard who holds no interest for you?” she blurted.  

His eyes came swiftly back to hers, and her heart sank as they narrowed with suspicion.  “Ah,” he murmured, his expression hardening.  “Is that all this is?  Sif is feeling inadequate?  Oh, _my_. _”_   He laughed aloud and threw her a derisive smile.   

She turned her back to him, feeling vaguely ill and thoroughly disgusted with herself.  It was one thing to have such morose, maudlin thoughts in the privacy of her own head.  To speak them aloud to a man who thrived on mockery and sarcasm was madness.  

“I must apologize for my thoughtless brother,” Loki continued in a regretful tone.  “He has ever been blind.  Not to mention sorely lacking in good taste.  But you mustn’t take it too much to heart, lady.  Just because _he_ doesn’t want you, doesn’t mean --”

“Stop,” she cut him off, casting a cold eye over her shoulder.  He was smiling true now, all his good humor restored at her humiliation.  “Please stop.”

To her surprise, he did so, at once.  

“I apologize for dragging you away from your…amusements,” she said stiffly, keeping her back to him as she returned to the window.  “Feel free to go.”  She drew her legs up to her chest and wrapped her arms around her knees as she stared out at the stars, waiting for the sound of the door so she might nurse her battered pride in private.   

To her dismay and irritation, he did not go.  Careful, deliberate footsteps on the marble floor came to rest beside her window-seat.  A long, silent pause; she heard him swallow.  She refused to look at him, but as he stood there, watching her, she began to wonder if he might offer one of his rare apologies.

“You’re a silly woman,” he said finally.

She snorted, half a laugh.  Of course.   

“Sif,” he sighed.  He perched on the edge of the seat, inches from her toes, far too close for comfort.  From the corner of her eye, she saw him lift a hand as if to place it on her knee, then hold back, clenching a fist and pulling it back to himself. 

His voice came low.  “You are the only woman in Asgard who holds _any_ interest for me.”

She looked at him sharply.  His eyes were on her face, his expression as open as she’d ever seen it.  Again he brought his hand to her knee; this time, he let it rest there, very lightly, testing her resolve to slap him away.    

“Liar,” she whispered.  But she didn’t shake him off.  

He glanced away, fingering the fabric of her trousers between two fingers. "The nine realms know you love my brother," he said quietly, without malice, simply stating a fact. "I've no interest in being anyone's second choice." 

She stared down at his hand on her knee, his thumb working absently across the two-inch slash in her trousers that had been expertly repaired by one of the palace seamstresses just a few days earlier.  There was a small scar on his knuckle, a thin white line so old and faded it had nearly vanished.  Tentative, she reached out to place her hand over his, tracing the mark with her thumbnail.  

He stilled at once, his eyes darting to meet hers.  

Strange to see her own loneliness reflected back in another’s eyes.  Stranger still to realize how little she truly knew Loki, even after all these years.  Always she had sensed a certain solitude within him, despite the witty, teasing, mischief-making veneer.   They were not so different, really.    

Sif took his hand in hers as she slid her foot down to the floor, shifting closer into the empty space her movement created.   “You’re far from that,” she said softly, reaching for his other hand.  

His hands were cool in hers, his eyes sweeping over her face again and again, searching.  She held his gaze, willing him to see her, see _into_ her.  But his uncertain frown didn’t fade; his eyes remained wary.  

_He will never believe me,_ she realized.  Not her words.  Loki knew too well that words could not be trusted. 

She reached up to cradle his cheek in her palm, running her thumb over his high sharp cheekbone.  His eyes closed, and she felt him shiver, but he leaned into her touch all the same, and she edged closer until she could feel his breath on her face.  He remained utterly still, but she swore she could hear his heart hammering.  

She brought her other hand up to run through his hair, and laid her cheek against his for a moment, savoring his unique smoothness – he was the only grown man in Asgard without a beard – before sliding across to press a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth.   

“Loki,” she whispered.

He opened his eyes, piercing her with the force and honesty of his blue gaze.  His arms snaked around her waist and pulled her into his lap, and this time when she turned her face to kiss him, he met her halfway.  

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! And thanks to those who have offered kudos. :)


	3. Chapter 3

 

Never having seen more than a glimpse of the milk-white skin at his throat, Sif was unprepared for Loki’s beauty.  Graceful and lithe he had always been, but still she found herself startled by the long clean lines of his limbs, his torso, his neck, even his feet with their long slender toes.  Even more strange was his unexpected modesty.  Such shyness was so uncharacteristic of everything she knew about him that she nearly laughed when his eyes flickered only briefly over her body, taking her in quickly before he looked away.   

Yet she couldn’t tease him.  

She’d never seen such an expression on his pale face.  Loki had long ago mastered the art of concealing his emotions with an impassive mask or a half-smile of mild amusement; this was neither, was something different, deeper.  For a long moment she stared into his kaleidoscope eyes and felt she was seeing him for the first time.  

She wasn’t sure how to proceed, not without that perpetually mocking smile playing about the corners of his mouth to spur her wit and bolster her confidence.  The game had changed, and she didn’t know how to play without their usual rules; this thing between them was far too new and fragile for that.   

In the end, it was simple.  He was waiting, even now, for her assent, her encouragement.  Accustomed to taking charge, she obliged him.  

~~~~

Sif slept, and Loki watched her.

He was fully aware that few thought him capable of any emotions save contempt or jealousy, and mostly he didn’t care.  The façade of indifference he had mastered over the course of centuries had, for the most part, become his reality.  He knew his place, had come to accept that he would never truly feel like one of them.  He rather relished the life of the outsider, the lack of expectation, the faint but unmistakable envy that he knew some of them felt for his right to come and go as he pleased.  Crave as he did to belong, he knew that it was impossible, that he would always be a reluctant addition to the party.  

He didn’t care.  Mostly.  

Sif was little better than the rest of the Aesir.  Her tongue was as sharp as any, and she scarcely bothered to conceal her eye-rolling contempt at his mischief-making.  Not easily impressed, this one.  Yet even in their verbal sparring she tended to show a gentle restraint, sensitive not to push him too far, demonstrating a keen awareness of the boundary between humor and pride.   He toyed with the notion that she genuinely liked him.  Possible, but doubtful.  More likely she was simply kind by nature.  

He didn’t like to think about such things.  It made him hope.  Hope had crushed him before; Loki endeavored not to give it further opportunities to do so again.

Carefully, he reached up to lift a strand of long dark hair off her forehead, exposing the smooth pale skin of her temple.  On the whole, Freyja was more beautiful, Idun more youthful, Nanna more voluptuous; but none had more exquisite hair than Sif.  He’d done her a favor, really.  She was different, like him.  She deserved something more magical than the blonde tresses that made her indistinguishable from every woman in Asgard, and he’d given it to her.  Although perhaps that was not his motivation at the time.     

He drew a silken ribbon across his lips and ran the backs of his fingers across her cheek in a gentle caress.  She made a soft sound and nestled into his chest, sliding her hand up to twine her fingers with his as she tucked her face into the hollow of his shoulder.  

He fell asleep with the scent of her hair in his nostrils.

~~~~

Loki slept, and Sif watched him.

She knew full well that he was not to be trusted.  Odin’s younger son was entirely too fond of mischief and deception and rather too short on scruples.  And yet.  She’d seen the goodness in his heart, too often masked by the cynical grin.  But he made it so… _difficult._ It was impossible to get closer than arm’s length to him.

Strange to see him laid bare like this, so open and unguarded.  She had seen fleeting glimpses of it before, rare in count and never longer than a moment, but she’d seen it all the same.  Yet while he treated every god in Asgard with equal irreverence, he had ever been gentle with Sif.  He teased her as he teased all of them, but he had never publicly embarrassed her as he had others.  Other than the prank on her hair, of course, but he’d expressed genuine remorse for that when he thought she wasn’t listening.  And in truth, she had grown to love her darkness, so unlike the women of Asgard.  Horror at being different had turned to appreciation for being unique.  It was almost a gift, really.  

She wasn’t sure what to make of him, if anything.  Perhaps he genuinely cared for her?  She considered the few honest moments they had shared, and wondered. 

He had proven far more tender than she had anticipated.  Expecting raw passion, she had been almost disappointed by his gentle lingering touch, until the moment when she felt him whisper her name against her lips and opened her eyes to find him gazing at her with a fullness in his beautiful eyes that was more than simple lust.

But it couldn’t be more.  Not with this one.

She smoothed a lock of dark hair off his cheek, tucking it behind his ear, and came back to trace her thumb over the curve of his lower lip.  His eyelids fluttered, black lashes on white cheeks, but he did not wake, only made a sound like a sigh as his mouth parted slightly.  She trailed her fingertips along his jaw, pressed her thumb into the center of his lower lip, then withdrew to replace it with her mouth.  She slid a hand across his shoulderblade, down the smooth warm skin of his spine, and drew her thigh across him. 

It was a few moments before he stirred.  His hands found her first, sliding over her back before tangling into her sheaf of hair, and when he opened his eyes to gaze up at her astride him, it was with an expression of awe she’d carry with her to the end of her days.

~~~~

Morning came, sunlight in his face, and Sif was gone.  

Loki sat up, instantly awake, passing a hand over the spot she had occupied.  Judging by the chill, she’d been gone for some time.

The surge of emotions that coursed through him was immediate and overwhelming and too many to pinpoint.  Grief and anger, regret and confusion.  He felt equal parts disbelieving and utterly unsurprised, and for a moment he wondered if he’d imagined it all, a vivid hallucination born of drink and loneliness.  

Her scent filling the sheets told him otherwise. Her rooms, her bed, and still she had fled rather than wait for him to go.  

He flung the blankets aside, gathering up his garments from their scattered piles across the floor.  He pressed his face into his crumpled tunic and closed his eyes, assailed by the memory of Sif undressing him, kneeling before him, eager and unashamed.  Her lips on his cheekbone, tasting him.  The depth of her hazel eyes, gazing into the deepest part of him with affection and admiration and no judgment at all.      

_Fool._

He should have known better.  He _did_ know better.  

He yanked on his breeches and pulled his tunic over his head, fumbling with the ties in his haste, cursing himself all the while, desperate now to escape without detection.  Of all the impulsive, thoughtless acts he had committed, this was surely the most foolhardy.  As always, Hope had betrayed him.   Would he never learn?

“Loki?”  

Her soft warm voice was liquid in his veins, giving him to shiver.  He shook it off and kept his back to her, working the laces of his tunic with trembling fingers as she pulled the heavy oak door closed behind her, shutting out the sounds of laughter and footsteps in the corridor outside.    

She slowed as she approached, eyeing him warily.  “You’re going?”      

“It’s time, yes?” He forced a short laugh as he cast a frantic eye for his boots.  Perhaps he could leave barefoot.  

Sif came to stand in front of him.  She was dressed for the training yard, tight trousers and a loose tunic, her hair plaited into a long, thick braid that hung over one shoulder.  “Is something wrong?” she asked softly, ducking her chin to gaze up into his face as she reached for his hands.  Her forehead creased in a teasing, puzzled smile.  

His throat had closed so tight he could barely breathe.  He forced a swallow, dry and painful, and somehow managed to produce something like his usual smile as he pulled his hands free to continue lacing his tunic.  “Not at all, lady Sif.  I’m only thinking of you; surely you don’t want anyone to see me leaving?”  His smile turned wry.  “Imagine the gossip.”

She lifted an eyebrow.   “Indeed.”

“Consider your reputation.  And mine,” he added blithely.  

The amusement faded from her eyes.  “Ah.  So you’d rather not be seen with me?”  

He shrugged, smoothing back his hair with both hands.  “The feeling’s mutual, I’m sure.”

She stared at him for a long, hard moment, her face a picture of wounded disbelief as she searched his eyes, seeking some shred of the connection she’d felt just a few hours before.  He’d felt it too, she was certain of it.  She’d seen it.  Yet there was nothing left of it now, just the icy impenetrable gaze and cold smirk he always wore.  

Tears stung her eyes and she quickly turned her back. 

How naïve she’d been, thinking Loki could have anything resembling genuine feelings.  Let him have his tavern wenches and his mortal admirers and his clandestine affairs with goddesses and their handmaidens; he wouldn’t make a fool out of her.  

She brushed angrily at her cheeks, furious that she hadn’t been able to hold them in completely, and glanced up into the mirror above her dressing-table to catch him staring at her.  Expecting his derisive smile, the stricken expression of regret and dismay on his face caught her by surprise.  The blue eyes that met hers in the glass were filled with bewildered sadness.

She held his gaze for a long moment, keeping her face stony.  Gone was the spiteful coldness he’d displayed just moments before, replaced by the naked insecurity he had shared with her last night.  Which version was true?

Both, she realized bleakly.  Little wonder his lovers never lasted long.

“Sif.” Loki’s voice came low and hesitant as he stepped forward and tentatively touched her shoulder, a bare brush of his fingertips.  

She stiffened and flinched away.  “Just go,” she choked out, the effort of keeping the tremor from her voice making her tone more harsh than she’d intended.  

Instantly, he pulled back, the mask dropping back over his features as he put his hands over his face, forcing himself to breathe slow and calm, even as his stomach roiled and his heart raced with the realization of what he’d done.  

_Fool._

He lifted his eyes to the mirror, trying to catch her eyes, but her arms were crossed protectively over her chest and her gaze was fixed firmly on the floor.  He licked his lips, opened his mouth, tried to say _I’m sorry,_ but the words just wouldn’t come out.

He slipped out without another word, pulling the door shut quietly behind him.  

A palace guard passing by halted in his tracks at the sight of the prince outside Lady Sif’s door at such an hour, eyebrows shooting up under his visor in scandalized astonishment.  

Loki gave him a look that indicated he’d cut his tongue out. 

The guard’s face went immediately blank, and he continued down the hall double-time, not looking back.  

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

 

 

 

 

He spent the next week in the library, reading everything he could find on memory charms and vanishing enchantments.  

He wasn’t _hiding_ from her, per se. That Loki practically lived in the library was common knowledge; if anyone wanted to find him, it would be the first place to look.

She wasn’t looking.

It was for the best. He pushed away the guilt-ridden memory of her shocked and disappointed eyes and reminded himself that she’d been in love with Thor for years, _years._ It was folly to think one night with him could change that. She’d slaked her loneliness with him, that was all. She’d admitted as much.

The librarian brought books he thought the prince might find useful every few hours, assembling neat piles of volumes on the round table next to Loki’s armchair. Hákon knew every book Loki had read since the boy was old enough to decipher words, including all the volumes Loki thought he had stolen away in secret. Though they spoke little, there were few in the realm who knew him better than this man who had been old when Odin was born.  

He glanced up to read the spines of Hákon’s newest suggestions as the old man picked up the ones he was finished with and withdrew. _Spells of the Elvish Runes._ _Properties and Uses of Jarlstones. Novice Projection Spells._  

“Hákon,” he called to the librarian’s retreating back.

The ancient man turned to look at him from under bristling white eyebrows. “My prince?”

“You are thoughtful, but this?” He smiled and picked up the slender volume on top of the stack. “Novice?” he teased. It had been centuries since Loki could be considered a novice in any respect.

“Oh, that was not for you,” Hákon apologized, coming back. “That one is for the young lady.”

Loki could feel the blood drain from his face as his heart leapt into his throat, hammering double time, threatening to choke him. “What young lady,” he managed in a whisper.

“Your friend, the lady warrior.”

He stared at the old man. “What makes you think she would want this?”

Hákon gave him a puzzled look. “She inquired after a spellbook some days ago. This one was just returned and is the best introduction for a beginner. As you know.”

Loki ran a finger down the spine, frowning a little at the frayed edge that spoke of its years of use. “Who else here studies magic?”

“More than you might think, my prince. None so masterful as yourself, or the Queen of course, but there is no shortage of interest in the subject.” Crystal-blue eyes gleamed within the wrinkled folds of Hákon’s lined face. “Your father has no small talent.”

“My father,” Loki breathed.

“Oh, yes. Odin learned a great deal from the Vanir, after the truce. And from your mother of course,” he added thoughtfully. “He tasked me with building this collection after the war with Jotunheim. The Jotuns, too, are master magicians.”

That was news to him. “They are?”

“Indeed.” Hákon gestured to the book. “Apologies, my prince. ”

Loki stared down at the golden runes inlaid into the green leather cover, worn supple by the oil of many hands. “No,” he murmured. “I’ll take it to her.”

 

 

 

Nobody had seen Loki in days.

Not that she was looking.

By now, everyone was used to his vanishings. He had taken to disappearing for days, weeks, months at a time when he was still young. His wanderlust was something he shared with Thor, if for different reasons. Where Thor would pick a fight, Loki would pick a lock. Consummate thief, master manipulator, preeminent liar of all the nine realms. Too clever by half – but even he could be bested, at times. The image of his lips sewn shut by a vengeful dwarf was burned into her memory for all time. As was Frigga’s grim, horrified expression while she painstakingly removed the stitches.

Yet even then, he had returned with the treasure he’d sought, and when he was able to speak again he laughed when he told the story, well pleased with his own cunning despite the penalty he had paid.

She refused to wonder where he was, or worry for his safety. He was a liar and a thief and incapable of sincerity. She thought she’d seen a glimpse of his true self that night, but she was wrong. It would not happen again.

Probably he was just in the library, anyway. He practically lived there and when she’d stopped in to inquire into some beginner’s guides to spellcraft, the librarian had made a remark that seemed to indicate he’d seen Loki recently. Or perhaps he was just talking about the prince’s books. It was difficult to say; the old man seemed fairly senile.

Still, he had given her an extremely interesting and useful guide to weapons enchantments and protective charms. Simple enough to practice with even her limited skills, fascinating enough to keep her away from the training yard for the last three days. Loki was a consummate ass, yes, but there was no denying the power of his magic. It couldn’t hurt to set a charm on her sword, and he’d made it look so easy…

She piled a mound of pillows and furs into her window seat and worked through the exercises, consumed with frustration as every attempt to manifest her energy came up empty. She was following the technique exactly and growing more and more irritated as she realized she was missing something essential, something…

Ah, finally, there it was! A glimmer between her palms, a tiny sphere of pale green –

A soft knock on her door interrupted her concentration; the light vanished.

“Sons of Thrym,” she hissed, pushing the book off her lap as she got to her feet. Her knees ached a little from hours of sitting cross-legged, and she had to shake her limbs to get the blood flowing again. To her surprise she realized the light outside had shifted; it was nearly dark. Had she really been here all day?

The knock came again, more sharply this time.

She padded to the door in thick woolen socks, pushing her bangs out of her eyes, and realized she hadn’t bathed in days. Hadn’t even changed out of this same dun-colored tunic or bothered to fix her unraveling braid. And her stomach was growling; when had she eaten last? Yesterday?

She pulled open the door, still annoyed by the interruption, and stared in surprise at her visitor.

_He_ was not unkempt. In fact, he looked to be on his way somewhere, immaculate in his usual colors of green and gold and black, topped off with his elegant embroidered green cloak. Not a hair out of place, and he smelled vaguely of dragonwood, her favorite scent.

She tucked a greasy tendril of hair behind her ear, regarding him coldly. “What do you want?”  

Loki stared at her, eyes widening as he looked her up and down. “Are you all right?”

“Fine. Perfect. Perfectly fine.” She gave him a frosty smile and crossed her arms. “I’m busy, actually. Why are you here?”

He glanced over her shoulder. “Do you have…company?” he asked in clear disbelief, his eyes again dragging over her stained tunic, her uncombed hair.

“What do you want,” she repeated.

He cleared his throat, reaching into a pocket of his cloak and pulling out a thin leather-bound book. “Hákon was holding this for you,” he said stiffly. “You should find it useful; I did.”

She took it from him with a frown. “Who?”

“Hákon. The librarian. It might be wise to learn his name if you’ll be using the collection,” he suggested in a scathing tone. “Don’t keep it longer than a moon, or he’ll be after you.” He gave her a sharp, polite nod, and turned away in a swirl of green.

She looked down at the book and smiled. _Novice Projection Spells._ Perhaps the old man wasn’t addled after all. “Loki! Wait,” she called.

He paused, already some steps away, and tilted his head to hear her, but did not turn around.

“Can,” she swallowed, hesitated, _this is stupid don’t -_ “Can you…”

He turned then, eyes glinting.  

The errant strand of hair fell in her eyes again; she pushed it back behind her ear impatiently. “I’ve been practicing.”

He lifted an eyebrow, slowly began to walk back toward the door. “And have you had any success?”

She nodded, suppressing a smile. “A little, yes.”

The eyebrow went higher. “Already?” he asked, impressed despite himself.    

She let the grin burst forth, nodding again. “Yes! But, only a very little,” she admitted.

His smile was soft and genuine. “To be expected. It takes time.” A twinkle came into his eyes as his lips curved into a playful smirk. “It can be very absorbing. You must remember to bathe and eat regularly.”

She laughed, and for a moment forgot how angry she was with him. “Duly noted.” She smiled, and added impulsively, “Perhaps you could give me some …pointers. Sometime.”

His eyes swept over her, warmly appraising, and she shivered all over, suddenly self-conscious of her ragged appearance. “I’d be happy to,” he agreed.

He was close enough to touch now, but she made no move to do so, just looked into his eyes for a long, comfortable moment. He could be so kind and open at times. She liked that Loki very much. Why was it always so fleeting?

At last she dropped her gaze to the book in her hand. “Thank you for bringing this, and thank… Hákon,” she glanced up briefly and flushed a little at the mirth that sparkled in his eyes, “…for saving it for me. Better yet, no, I’ll thank him myself,” she smiled.

He murmured approval. “Very good.”

He was very close. One might say, in her space. All the way in the doorway now. She should either invite him in or shut the door.

_Shut the door._

She was experienced in choosing the harder path, and marshaled her resolve. “Perhaps later?”

Something sad and pensive flickered through his eyes, and he glanced away, but the smile lingered on his lips as he straightened up and away from her. “Later,” he agreed. “You know where to find me.” He turned his wrist and opened his palm to the air between them, and a shimmering green image of the third-floor bay window in the library came into view, complete with the tree outside the window and Loki himself studiously taking notes at the desk.

She laughed.

He was already heading down the hallway. Just a few steps from her, though, he turned around and called as he walked backwards, “What color is it?”

Sif smiled. “Green.”

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Feedback is always appreciated.


	5. Chapter 5

 

Hours later, after a hot bath and the first meal she’d had in two days, Sif found herself in the library.

She wasn’t _looking_ for him, per se.  She just wanted to…thank the librarian for his consideration.  Before she forgot.  “Hakón,” she reminded herself as she opened the heavy double doors. 

She had never spent much time in the library, preferring to study – when she had to – in the privacy of her quarters, or in the gardens.  Yet there was no denying it was as beautiful and impressive as even the throne room, and even more vast: three stories of labyrinthine passages lined with dark heartwood stacks that towered overhead.  Tables and chairs were clustered around a square in the center, where floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the garden courtyard below.  Nearby, a spiral staircase of gold-inlaid wood led to the upper floors.

It was quiet and seemingly deserted.  The tables were empty, the front desk and its padded leather chair unoccupied.  In a crate on the counter were stacked several thick books, the topmost one titled _Principles and Systems of Visibility._ She lifted a corner to see what lay beneath:  _Memory Management.  Concealing Charms of the Vanir._

She smiled.  _Loki_.

It wasn’t likely he’d actually be here so late at night, but she found herself climbing the wooden staircase anyway, still smiling to herself at the image of him at that desk, in that bay window where he’d spent the better part of his youth.  Many times she had found him there, sent by Thor to prod him into joining them in the training yard. 

Her teasing and cajoling were almost always successful; which was, of course, why she was the one usually sent to fetch him.  Even when he was absorbed in his _everlasting studies_ (Thor’s words), more often than not he would heave a theatrical put-upon sigh and follow her.  She knew he enjoyed fighting her – they were well matched in strength, and she was better than most at anticipating his skills with the daggers.   And Loki was a different kind of challenge for her, faster and more agile than any of them, nearly impossible to pin down; all the more satisfying to shut his glib mouth when she succeeded. 

It occurred to her now that perhaps there was a deeper reason why he was so easily persuaded.

She pushed the thought away.  Loki did not have feelings for her.  Loki did not have feelings for anyone, save his mother and his brother.  And even that last was half-tinged with envy. 

She reached the top of the stairs and smiled to see a soft green glow at Loki’s window.

 

\-----

 

He wondered if it was Sif the moment he heard the heavy doors swing open and shut: not something he would normally notice, but the library was deserted this late at night and every sound reverberated easily through the empty halls.  But it could be anyone; someone returning a book, Hakón or one of his assistants…

Soon enough, he heard the footsteps on the staircase and fought a sudden, strong urge to mask his presence and remain unseen.  After she’d turned him away, he’d gone to the dining hall and submitted to hours of interrogation from Thor and the warriors and his mother and Odin – where had he gone off to this time, what had he been doing, he really must eat more, would he come on a quest to Alfheim to see a new weapon designed by the elves?  Thor calling for more mead, more ale, more wine. 

By the time he escaped he was utterly exhausted.  The final push had been Fandral wondering aloud where Lady Sif had been these last days; she had been in such a foul mood earlier in the week, had anybody seen her? 

He made his excuses, claiming too much drink which was really not a lie at all, and fell into bed only to find his mind still racing with thoughts of her.  Her waspish greeting, her warm goodbye.  He’d resisted the temptation to ask the dozens of questions that came into his head at Fandral’s revelation – when had he seen her last?  Was she ill?  Had she been injured in the training yard?  Did she say why she was upset?

_Did she mention me?_

Sleep proved elusive.  The library was an alternate sanctuary, and his window had a better view of the night sky than his own balcony.   Loki loved the stars.  He wanted to visit every realm, acquire every scrap of wisdom, every style of magic of every creature in the nine worlds.  For a while he kept his mind busy sketching the movement of the constellations into a journal he’d been keeping for centuries, until he found himself suddenly weary of study and analysis and laid back to simply enjoy their beauty. 

The window seat had been large enough for him to stretch out completely when he was a boy; now he had to draw his legs up, but the view was still unmatched.  He tucked his hands behind his head and fixed his gaze on a single point in the darkness, letting his vision adjust and relax until he could see the stars beyond the immediate plane. 

He’d tried to teach Thor some of the patterns when they were young, but his brother found such details tedious.  Even his mother was only mildly interested.  The only person in Asgard who shared his love for the lights of the universe was Heimdall, but his relationship with the gatekeeper had been frosty since that time he’d tricked Heimdall with an illusion and slipped past him to take an unauthorized journey to Nidavellir.  Heimdall did not appreciate being bested.  Ever. 

When Loki returned with his mouth sewn shut as price for the half-dozen priceless dwarf-forged relics in his bag, Heimdall had laughed and laughed.  Nobody had heard Heimdall laugh before or since.   

He tucked that insult away, to be dealt with some future day.

The quick light steps on the staircase, pausing at the landing, could belong only to Sif.  He knew her pseudo-stealthy tread and had teased her for decades to work on her approach before she got them all killed someday with her thunderous bilgesnipe steps.  She had improved a great deal, he had to admit, smiling to himself as he swept his hands together to create an image of the barred spiral galaxy that had come into his vision.  The footsteps that came toward him now were soft and sure. 

He turned the galaxy in his hands, examining at it on all sides.  “Much better.  But you dragged your feet on the stairs.”

She laughed quietly, settling in his chair and slipping off her sandals before propping her feet up on the bench beside his hip.  “I didn’t really think you’d be here.”  She nudged his thigh with her toe.  “What are you doing?”

“Astronomy.” 

She made a sound like _oh_ under her breath, her eyes fixed on the starry image that moved in his hands.  Silence settled between them, not altogether uncomfortable, but heavy nonetheless with the weight of things unsaid.  Unsure how to break it, he remained silent, waiting.

At last she sighed, a sad and disappointed sound.  “I’ll leave you to it, then,” she said softly, pulling back to put her feet on the floor.

Loki reached out with one hand to stop her, cool fingers on her ankle; she stilled immediately.  “Have you ever seen the sun of Niflheim?” he asked idly, eyes still focused upon the galaxy in his right hand.

“No,” she whispered. 

Her hazel eyes glimmered brown and green and gold in the reflected light of his magic.  He pushed himself up to sitting and swept the conjured image away with a movement of his hand, leaving them with only the stars and a sliver of moon for illumination.  “It’s there,” he gestured, to an indeterminate point she could not possibly discern with only the vague guide of his finger.  She leaned forward anyway, trying to distinguish one of the pinpoints as something significant, but saw only a nameless swath of stars.

“It is called Kaldstjerne.”  He scooted deeper into the window seat and beckoned her to join him.  After a moment’s hesitation, she did so, clearly doing her best not to touch him.  But it was a narrow space for two people and she ended up pressing her shoulder to his chest as she followed his direction to a fuzzy magenta spot in the northwest sky.  “It’s a cold star, no hotter than a kitchen fire,” he murmured.

She frowned, puzzled.  “How can that be?”

“It’s dying…the core is exhausted, and it no longer has any fuel to burn.  In time it will either explode, and take Niflheim with it, or collapse and become a new portal.  Also taking Niflheim with it,” he chuckled quietly.

She studied his profile in the faint silvery light.  Moonlight suited him, emphasizing his contrasting coloring, the sharp angles of his cheekbones, the sweep of his lashes against his cheeks when he blinked slow and sleepy.  Sometimes she envied his never-ending quest for knowledge, his gift for remembering seemingly everything he heard and read.  It was both admirable and maddening; Loki had a way of making everyone around him seem ignorant.

He felt her gaze and glanced back at her, an uneasy frown creasing his forehead as his eyes met hers.  “I’m sorry,” he said softly.  “I expect you find this all very dull.”

“It’s not,” she demurred.  “At all.”  She shifted to press her side against his, stretching out her legs and smiling as she tucked her cold feet under his calves.   “I am not the scholar you are, but that doesn’t mean I don’t find it interesting.”  She nudged his arm until he lifted it to wrap around her shoulders, and laid her head on his chest so she could better see the sky.  _“You_ make it interesting,” she amended drowsily.

He stared down at her for a long moment, her hair spilled across his chest, her body warm and pliant next to his.  Sif was nothing if not honest, he had to admit.  If she didn’t want to be here, she wouldn’t have come.  If his musings bored her, she would make her excuses and go.  If his touch repelled her, she would shrug him off.  But she was here, and her interest was genuine, and she seemed to think he made an agreeable pillow.

_Why did you ask me here?_

 

For a brief, masochistic moment he thought of telling her that Thor was done with Eydis.  How would she respond?  Would she push him away and run to his brother’s favorite tavern?  Return to the training yard, send the books back unread?

He closed his eyes and willed himself to just enjoy the moment for once, _once._

She felt him tense up, glanced up to see the deep tortured frown in his forehead, and felt utterly at a loss as to what could have put it there.  Did he want her to leave?  Was she intruding on his private time; was he just being polite?  Were his friends so few that he would talk to anyone who would listen, anyone at all?

She reached for his hand that lay slack on his belly, threading her fingers through his.  They were cold, but warmed quickly at her touch.  He swallowed, and she felt him uncoil a little as he exhaled a long, shuddering breath, the rapid thumping of his heartbeat settling into a more normal rhythm. 

With a mischievous grin, she wiggled her toes against his legs until he opened his eyes to look at her with an expression that couldn’t decide if it wanted to be a smile or a frown.  “It’s cold in here,” she whispered.  “Aren’t you cold?”

The smile won out.  “No.”  

She lifted her head to roll her eyes at him.  “Loki.”

He grinned, teeth flashing white in the moonlight.  “What?  I’m not.” 

_“I_ am,” she said pointedly, squeezing his hand with a suggestive smile.

“Ah,” he murmured.  Subtle, she was not.  He decided to have a bit of fun.  “I can show you how to cast a warming spell,” he suggested.  “They’re easy enough, even for a beginner…”

Her face fell in disbelief and disappointment so quickly he nearly laughed; but his cheeky smile gave him away, and her eyes narrowed.  He lifted a playful eyebrow.  “Or did you have something else in mind?”    

“I _did,”_ she said tartly.  “But now I’m not so sure…perhaps I’ll just go find somewhere warmer…”  She made a show of disentanging herself, pulling her feet from under his legs, but he still had her hand and he used his speed and leverage to quickly roll her underneath him, seizing her free hand to join it to the one he held now over her head, his grin triumphant. 

She gasp-laughed in surprise, her eyes shining with mirth and desire.  “I think you must be part serpent,” she whispered. 

He ducked his head to taste her neck, nipping at her earlobe.   The salt of her skin, the throb of her life’s blood under his open mouth…it was almost more than he could stand.  “Tell me what you want,” he said, a little more roughly than he’d intended.

If she was offended she showed no sign of it, arching her neck to give him better access, her eyes dark with lust as they met his.  She tugged against his restraining hands until he released them, and immediately reached up to bury her fingers in his hair and pull him down for a long, lingering kiss, stealing his breath, biting his lip with fierce little nips until he growled and returned the favor. 

At last he turned his face to breathe, panting against her neck, but she could feel his smile that matched her own.  She tugged on his hair until he lifted his head to look at her, and pushed a lock of hair out of his eyes so she might see him fully, no ambiguity, no teasing, her voice steady and sure.  “Take me to your room.”

He didn’t have to be told twice. 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!


	6. Chapter 6

 

 

 

Loki was not in the habit of having guests in his chambers.  From the time he was young, he was ever jealous of his privacy; even among the servants, only a select few were permitted to enter his rooms to clean, and were warned against moving any of his things under pain of flogging.  The last time a well-intentioned maid had pulled all his oils and potions off the shelves to clean the bottles, he’d spent the better part of two days reorganizing the jumbled mess, and the girl’s timid, terrified _But why are they all not marked, my prince…?_ had been the greatest test of his temper and self-control in recent memory. 

No, better always to find himself in another’s bed, where escape was quick and painless and tedious goodbyes more easily avoided.  Even now he felt uneasy as he slipped the bolt across, trying not to flinch as she ambled over to the shelves by his desk and started looking through his books, his herbs, his carefully ordered healing stones and amulets.  _Touching_ everything.  He bit his tongue and watched her, wondering what she was thinking.  

Sif had been here before, but it had been many years and the room was different than the one she remembered.  More bookcases, a bigger desk, a veritable garden of potted and drying plants organized on shelves and racks.  Everything in perfect order.  He’d always been that way, even as a boy – precise, neat, methodical.  When he cut her hair he hadn’t missed a single strand. 

Everything in his possession spoke of mystery and magic.  An ancient-looking wooden box, carved in a pattern of interlocking circles and locked with a hooked clasp.  A pigeonhole cabinet filled with pouches of various colors, tiny labels hanging from their tasseled ends.  A leather book, embossed with a gold runic symbol and tied around with thin leather laces.  She trailed her fingertips over the symbol and heard him pull in a sharp breath.

She pulled her hand back at once and glanced up to find him watching her, tension in his stance and anxiety glittering in his eyes, though he was clearly trying to hide it.  “You don’t like people touching your things,” she apologized, moving to stand before the fireplace and warm her hands.  The room was chilly despite the fire; strange. 

He came to stand beside her, relaxing into a smile when she leaned into his shoulder.  “Well.  No,” he admitted.  “I don’t.” 

 “No exceptions?” she teased.

“None,” he murmured, in a tone that indicated exactly the opposite.

She turned her body to face him, stepping confidently into his space and sliding her arms around his waist.  He wrapped his arms around her and let out a long deep sigh, closing his eyes to inhale the scent of her hair.  Something floral; he couldn’t quite place it.  He ducked his head – just a little; she was so tall, so well matched to him – and rubbed his cheek lightly against hers, savoring the delicious, exquisite softness of her skin.  He let his lips linger on her cheekbone, and she closed her eyes, exhaling a sigh of her own, her long lashes fluttering slightly as he drew away to look at her.  The bedraggled, disheveled woman of only hours earlier was transformed, clothed in a simple, silky flowing gown of pale blue that exposed her lovely shoulders and collarbone.  Gold drops at her ears, her hair pulled into a long, thick braid tied with a gold ribbon.   

 _So beautiful._  Had he ever thought otherwise?  Thought anyone else more desirable?  _Fool_.

She was wearing makeup, he realized with a jolt, observing the cunningly wrought dark line that made her wide eyes look even bigger.  She’d dressed for him with silk and ribbons and jewels, and come looking for him, in the place he’d told her.     

She opened her eyes and found him gazing at her with an expression that made her heart pound faster.  It seemed impossible that he could look at her with such warmth and desire, no sign of the  defensive sarcasm that served him as such an effective shield. 

Before the moment could vanish, she slipped her hand along his jaw and drew him down for a kiss.  He returned it, but only for a moment, pulling back to rest his forehead against hers, his lips just brushing hers as he paused, breathing her in; waiting for something, she knew not what. 

Eyes closed, she forced herself to wait, impatient for him to take charge, to reciprocate her boldness in seeking him out by demonstrating that he wanted her.  That he did was plain enough, but she wanted more, wanted him to take her the way she craved.  To be overwhelmed, swept away, overpowered even. 

When he ducked down and caught her behind her knees, she toppled in surprise and he caught her in one arm, picking her up easily with the deceptive strength that caught so many unaware in battle.  It was a short trip to the bed, where he unceremoniously tossed her onto her back and stood at the end, staring at her with unreadable eyes.

Sif pushed herself onto her elbows and met his gaze with a challenge of her own.  Her heart was pounding in anticipation and the slightest prick of fear – what was he thinking? 

The glimmer of alarm in her eyes was strangely intoxicating.  She liked force, he knew.  Responsive as she’d been to his gentle touch their first time, he had not been oblivious to her nips and tugs, her barely concealed impatience as he took his time, forcing her to submit in a different way than she’d expected.  Torturing her with tenderness.   His motives were not entirely unselfish: he’d wanted to enjoy her in the way _he_ always imagined, a leisurely exploration, committing every inch of her skin to memory. 

She had not been unsatisfied.  But he knew what she really wanted. 

He pulled his tunic over his head and was gratified when her eyes, fixed upon him, darkened with lust.  He dropped his trousers and she licked her lips.  Climbed onto the bed, knees on either side of her, and seized her hands when she moved to touch him.  Her eyes flared, frustration and desire glimmering in their clear depths as she twisted her wrists to free her hands.

Loki tightened his grip, watching her face as he sought the fine line between maintaining his dominance and causing her actual pain.  He had no desire to bruise her lovely skin; warrior she might be, but he had never failed to see her as a woman.  Besides which, it would raise questions. 

He released her hands and scooped his arms under her shoulders to pull her up as he sat back on his haunches, pulling the tie from her braid as he carefully began to loosen the plait.  Her eyes slipped closed as his fingertips massaged her skull, freeing her lock dark locks in thick wavy ropes and plunging his hands into the freed tresses, tugging just enough to pull a low gasp from her.

He pulled her head back and kissed her bared neck, eliciting a purr that became a growl as he sat back and pulled her half into his lap.  Moving his lips down the long column of her throat as he pushed the slit dress sleeve over her shoulder, he smiled against her skin when she seized a handful of his hair and gave an answering tug.  He tightened his grasp on her locks with one hand, found the clasp of her dress with the other and pulled it free, nipping at her collarbone until she let out a low hiss.

With all her senses focused on the trail he blazed with his mouth, she’d scarcely realized he had loosened her dress until the fabric fell completely away from her shoulders, leaving her bare to the waist.  She shivered all over in the sudden chill, tingling under his touch as he ran his fingertips  along her spine to her hip, where he gripped the bunched fabric of her gown.

In a swift move she lifted up and straddled his lap.  It put her right where she wanted to be, and she smirked in satisfaction at his surprised expression.  But he recovered quickly, pulling her dress up over her head and tossing it behind him, holding her steady with one hand at the small of her back.  She wore nothing underneath, and he pulled in a sharp breath as she pressed her belly against his bared stomach, sighing into his mouth as their skins met.  Slowly she moved her hips, grinding against him until he groaned, and again she grinned in triumph.

And then in the space of a heartbeat, so fast she wasn’t sure how he managed it, Loki had her flat on her back, hands pinned to her sides.  His fingers dug into her wrists and he pressed his weight onto her to hold her down, biting her lip hard enough to make her gasp in surprise and pain.  Instinctively she fought against his ferocity, squirming to escape, but he had her pinned and wasn’t letting up.  Inflamed, she wrapped her legs around his waist, determined to flip him over. 

He wasn’t having it, even when she caught his lower lip between her teeth and twisted her wrist to try and topple him.  He snarled when she bit him but refused to take his mouth from hers, forcing her to accept his kiss until, at last, her struggles to escape became a frantic desire to pull him closer.  He felt the change in her immediately, and released her wrists to bury his hands in her hair.  Her arms instantly snaked around his neck, her legs still wrapped around him so tightly he could barely move, but her lips softened under his as she smiled into his kiss and whispered, _“Please.”_

If she’d expected him to hold back now, she was mistaken; her single word was enough to make his blood boil, and he slid into her in one long push until she gasped.  That brought him back just long enough to meet her eyes, barely waiting for her breathless nod of assent before he was moving.  Her fingernails clawed at his back as she rose up to meet him, her back arching on every thrust until her pants became cries and she came undone with a cursing scream that echoed off the chamber walls. 

It seemed to go on forever, until she finally had to lower her legs and put her hand on his lower back with a gasp, “Okay…stop…stop.”

He slowed to a halt, sweating and panting himself, and dropped his forehead to hers.  She kissed his neck and reached up to push his hair back, and had to grin at the utterly smug expression on his face.  “Oh shut up,” she whispered.

“Is the lady satisfied?” he returned, although the wicked tone he’d intended was compromised somewhat by his own gasping laughter.

She had neither will nor energy to tease, smiling through a nod of affirmation.  “She is indeed,” she purred, and squeezed him a little, just enough to make his eyes fly open.  “And the prince?”

He gave her a look that called her pure evil, and captured her lips in a long, lingering kiss.  “If the lady is satisfied, how could I ask for more?” he murmured.

Sif grinned at that, the most unselfish thing she had ever heard come from Loki’s lips, and might have laughed had he not shifted to slide deeper inside her.  Whatever response she had in mind was swallowed in a groan, and she pushed down on his lower back, lifting her legs to wrap round him again. 

He smiled against her lips and finished on his terms, setting a pace half what she’d wanted for herself, with the unexpected bonus of getting her there again when it was his turn to unravel. 

He might have cried out her name.  He couldn’t be sure.  But when he fell onto his back beside her and she flung her arm across his chest, burying her face into the hollow of his shoulder, he pulled her close and kissed the top of her head and mumbled something impulsive and unwise, something about love. 

He fell asleep before he heard her answer. 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!


	7. Chapter 7

 

She lay awake for a long time after Loki closed his eyes.  Strange how she could feel so comfortable at his side, even as she knew she could never come back here again.

This was a mistake.  A mad, impulsive, unwise mistake.  Loki had it right the first time: she was in love with his brother.  And nothing would change that. 

Foolish, stupid woman she was, allowing it to come to this.  All her life she’d been a slave to discipline, only to abandon it in the one moment it would have served her most?  She’d crossed a line she vowed never to traverse, knowing full well her own limits all the while.  Because there was only one possible ending.

He would hate her forever, and she couldn’t blame him.

 

* * *

 

 

When he woke, she was gone. 

This time, she didn’t come back.

He wasn’t surprised. 

  

* * *

 

 

He didn't turn up to dinner the next night, nor the one after that.  Off on one of his solitary roamings, Frigga sighed when Thor asked after him, and she glanced at Sif with a sadness in her eyes that might have known everything or nothing. 

“He didn’t say where?” she ventured.

Frigga’s gaze seemed to see through her. “He seldom does.”

“Well I’m sure he’ll have a grand story when he returns, as always,” Volstagg chuckled. 

Frigga smiled.  “Indeed,” she murmured. 

She saw everything, and spoke of nothing.

 

* * *

 

When he returned, months later, he had gifts for everyone.  Being Loki, they tended toward the humorous: a huge drinking horn for Thor; a gilded mirror for Fandral; a bejeweled dinner knife for Volstagg; a mace crafted of pink iron for Hogun that made even that grim-faced soldier smile.  For his parents, more decorous offerings: a pair of iron-studded leather gloves for Odin; a serpentine arm-bracelet of red gold for Frigga.

“For the Lady Sif,” he said at last, though she’d have died sooner than ask if he’d remembered her.  “A trinket for your wardrobe.”  He smirked, and presented her with a simple chain of a metal more dull than silver, more bright than iron.  “They call it ‘pewter’ on Midgard,” he said.

It was just a chain, no embellishments or gemstones to give it character.  She summoned a bright  smile, unsure if he meant it as an insult but determined not to let him think her disappointed by such a plain and unremarkable thing.  “You’re kind to remember me,” she said graciously, clasping it around her neck.

“Not at all.”  He turned away and said something to Thor, and did not speak to her again that night. 

The chain felt heavy on her skin.  She wondered if it was enchanted.

That night, she put it in a box and did not look at it again until he died.

 

 

* * *

 

 

For weeks she was on edge, waiting for him to confront her.  But he never said anything.  Never gave any indication that he gave her a second thought.  He neither sought her out nor avoided her; he was no more and no less sarcastic than he had ever been.  It was as though nothing had ever happened.

She told herself that she was glad he’d been able to forget her so easily.  That his jealousy of Thor had everything to do with the crown, and nothing to do with her. 

When he took the throne and sent the Destroyer to kill them all, it was easy enough to believe.

  

* * *

 

 

There was no body, and there would be no funeral rite, Odin declared.  Few seemed to care; fewer still would have attended.  Most thought the Allfather’s decision stemmed from Loki’s betrayal, but Sif knew better.  Though it was Frigga alone who gave voice to the hope that he was not lost forever, she knew the same hope lurked in Odin.  The Allfather had aged centuries in the weeks after Loki fell.

Sif harbored no such hope.  Loki was lost to them.

Alone in her room, she attempted to conjure an image of a ship to see him off.  She had not practiced any magic in decades, but she managed to produce a flickering, fleeting likeness of the funeral barge that should have been his.  It dissipated almost as soon as it materialized.

Before she went to bed, she retrieved the chain he had given her so many years before, clasping it around her neck with shaking fingers.  If he’d noticed that she never wore it, he hadn’t given any indication of it. 

He almost certainly _had_ noticed, she thought bleakly.  He noticed things.

It was heavier than she remembered.  Cool against her skin. 

She wouldn’t take it off again…until the day he returned from the dead, muzzled and in chains.

 

* * *

 

He hadn’t had any visitors.  Whether he was forbidden to have any, or if there was simply no friend left in the nine realms, he couldn’t be sure.  The latter seemed more likely, though.  He had no friends.  Sif’s words, from some distant past, rang hollow in his ears – _your friends, too; they’d die for you._

_Lies._

Frigga came to see him in his dreams.  Always speaking of his family, how he was missed, how even now they had hope for him, how his room stood empty, waiting for his return.

_Lies._

Odin had never had much love for him _(you know that’s not true,_ her gentle voice insisted).  He’d even managed to finally turn Thor against him.  Thor, who was loyal and true to the end.  Unlike himself.

When the door opened and it was not the blank-faced servant come to deliver his food, he blinked in astonishment, uncertain if he could believe his eyes.  She waved at the guard to shut the door, and stood staring at him with those cold, clear hazel eyes peering into his soul as only she had ever been able.

Well.  She, and Frigga. 

She regarded him for a long, long moment.  Waiting for him to speak?  He had nothing to say.  He accepted her judgmental gaze with as much grace as he could muster, genuinely humbled at first that she would even come to see him, but as the moment stretched out and the old familiar fear clutched at his heart – _why is she here?  she’ll never forgive you – she hates you – she’s only here to taunt you, after she’s done seeing how skinny and weak you’ve become -_  his defenses fell back into place and he affected a bored expression, crossing his arms over his chest. 

“Sif,” he said blandly.  “How lovely of you to come.  I’d offer you something, but --”

She slapped him.  Hard. 

The sting of her palm across his cheek was strangely satisfying.  He felt the blood rise up where she’d struck him and chuckled inwardly at his own masochism – how long since anyone had touched him, that even such violence would be welcome? 

He was _smiling!_   Enraged, she slapped him again, across the other cheek, so hard it hurt her hand.  He made no effort to resist even as his head snapped back with the force of her blow.  He was _laughing,_ and _smiling,_ and she hit him again, and again, and again, until finally a flash of anger lit up his eyes and he grabbed her wrist as she went to strike him again, determined to wipe the smirk from his face if it meant she had to cut him to ribbons –

“Enough!” he growled.  His grip was stronger than she’d remembered, sufficient to force her arm to her side.  _“Enough!”_

She yanked her arm free, fixing him with a coldly gratified smile.  “At last, a real emotion,” she hissed.  And then, before he could react, she wrapped her arms tightly around his neck.

He stood stunned and unresponsive, arms half raised to defend himself from her onslaught, but she was clearly done hitting him.  Had she lost her mind?  Or maybe it was a test, and if he dared to embrace her in return she’d make him pay, with punches this time –

She brought one arm down to pull his body against hers, closing her eyes at the warm hard solidity of him, _not dead,_ one hand stealing up to take a fistful of his hair as she tightened her grip on him.  He wasn’t resisting, at least, but neither had he made any effort to respond.  He was cold and stiff and he’d been _dead_ and then he wasn’t, and he had tried to _kill_ Thor, and _her_ , and _all_ of them, although technically some of that happened before he died – or didn’t die – and – _what had happened to him?_ He’d gone mad, that had to be it; but it couldn’t be, he was just too sad and jealous of his brother, too clever and conniving for his own good –

He remained still as a statue, and she finally began to feel foolish.  She had wept over his death, despite his betrayal; was close to weeping now in relief just to see him _alive_ even if he were an unrecognizable shell of himself, but he was unmoved as ever and why had she wasted her grief on this cold unfeeling creature?  She released the thick pile of his dark hair that she had grasped in her fist and stepped back, tears pooling hot and angry in the corners of her eyes – he was gone, gone, gone, never coming back, whatever he was now was not the man she’d known, and she would have to grieve all over again. 

Too late, his arms slid up her back to clutch her to him; she had already slipped from his grasp, darting from the cell before he could loosen his tongue to say something, anything. 

The next time he saw her, it was with her blade at his throat. 

Her face flashed before him when he died…again…just for an instant, as he sobbed out _I’m sorry_ for all the things he’d done and should have done, before he closed his eyes and heard Thor’s roar of grief and anger echo down the black canyon. 

He wondered if she’d mourn him, again.  If she’d mourned the first time. 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really wanted to make this a happy ending, but there was no way to do it that felt right. Hope it's not too disappointing. :)
> 
> Thank you all for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Feedback is appreciated.


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